时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第58部分
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second of their adoration？ How many girls had no idea that the
object of their worship was a lonely； deeply unhappy； and oftentimes
cruel woman who didn’t deserve the briefest moment of their innocent
affection and attention？
I wanted to cry； for Anita and all her friends who expended so much
energy trying to mold themselves into Shalom or Stella or Carmen；
trying to impress and please and flatter the woman who would only
take their letters and roll her eyes or shrug her shoulders or toss
them without a second thought to the girl who’d written down a piece
of herself。 Instead； I tucked the letter into my top desk drawer and
vowed to find a way to help Anita。 She sounded even more desperate
than the others who wrote； and there was no reason that with all the
excess stuff around I couldn’t find her a decent dress for a date
she would hopefully have soon。
“Hey； Em； I’m just going to run down to the newsstand and see if
they haveWomen’s Wear yet。 I can’t believe it’s so late today。 Do
you want anything？”
“Will you bring me a Diet Coke？” she asked。
“Sure。 Just a minute；” I said； and weaved quickly through the racks
and past the doorway to the service elevator； where I could hear
Jessica and James sharing a cigarette and wondering who would be at
Miranda’s Met party that night。 Ahmed was finally able to produce a
copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily； which was a relief； and I grabbed a Diet
Coke for Emily and a can of Pepsi for me； but on second thought； I
took a Diet for myself as well。 The difference in taste and
enjoyment wasn’t worth the disapproving looks and/or ments I was
sure to receive during the walk from reception to my desk。
I was so busy examining the front page’s color photo of Tommy
Hilfiger； I didn’t even notice that one of the elevators had opened
and was available。 Out of the corner of my eye； I caught a quick
glimpse of green； a very distinct green。 Particularly noteworthy
because Miranda had a Chanel suit in just that shade of greeny
tweed； a color I’d never really seen before but liked a whole lot。
And although my mind knew better； it couldn’t stop my eyes from
looking up and into the elevator； where they were sort of not really
surprised to find Miranda peering back。 She stood ramrod straight；
her hair pulled severely off her face as usual； her eyes staring
intently at what must have been my shocked face。 There was
absolutely no alternative but to step inside the elevator with her。
“Um； good morning； Miranda；” I said； but it came out sounding like a
whisper。 The doors closed behind us： we would be the only two riding
for the entire seventeen floors。 She said nothing to me； but she
pulled out her leather organizer and began flipping through the
pages。 We stood side by side； the depth of the silence increasing
tenfold with every second that she didn’t respond。Does she even
recognize me？ I wondered。 Was it possible that she was entirely
unaware that I had been her assistant for the past seven months—or
perhaps I really had whispered so softly that she hadn’t heard？ I
wondered why she didn’t immediately ask me about the restaurant
review or whether I’d received her message about ordering new china；
or if everything was in place for the evening’s party。 But she acted
as though she were all alone in that elevator； that there was not
another human being—or； to be precise； not one worth
acknowledging—inside that small vestibule with her。
It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that I noticed we weren’t
progressing through the floors。 Ohmigod！ Shehad seen me because
she’d assumed that I would press the button； but I’d been too
stunned to move。 I reached forward slowly； fearfully； pressed the
number seventeen； and instinctively waited for something to explode。
But we immediately whisked upward； and I wasn’t even sure if she had
noticed we hadn’t been moving all along。
Five； six； seven 。 。 。 it felt as though it took ten minutes for the
elevator to pass each floor； and the silence had begun humming in my
ears。 When I worked up enough nerve to steal a glance in Miranda’s
direction； I discovered that she was looking me up and down。 Her
eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then
my pants and then my shirt； and continued upward to my face and
hair； all the while avoiding my eyes。 The expression on her face was
one of passive disgust； the way the desensitizedLaw & Order
detectives appear when they’re faced with yet another beaten and
bloodied corpse。 I did a quick review of myself and wondered what
exactly had triggered the reaction。 Short…sleeve； military…style
shirt； a brand…new pair of Seven jeans I’d been sent free from their
PR department simply for working atRunway； and a pair of relatively
flat （two…inch heels） black slingbacks that were to date the only
nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that allowed me to make four…plus
trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits。 I
usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me； but I
needed a day off every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to
stop aching。 My hair was clean and assembled in the kind of
deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without ment；
and my nails—though unpainted—were long and reasonably well shaped。
I had shaved under my arms within the last forty…eight hours。 At
least as far as the last time I’d checked； there were no massive
facial eruptions。 My Fossil watch was turned around so the face was
sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch
a glimpse of the brand； and a quick check with my right hand
indicated that no bra straps were visible。 So what was it？ What
exactly had made her look at me that way？
Twelve； thirteen； fourteen 。 。 。 the elevator stopped and swept open
to yet another stark white reception area。 A woman of around
thirty…five stepped forward to board； but stopped two feet from the
door when she saw Miranda standing inside。
“Oh； I； uh 。 。 。” she stammered loudly； looking frantically around
her for an excuse not to enter our private hell。 And although it
would’ve been nicer for me to have her e aboard； I privately
rooted for her to escape。 “I； um； oh！ I forgot the photos I need for
the meeting；” she finally managed； whipping around on a particularly
unsteady Manolo and high…tailing it back toward the office area。
Miranda hadn’t appeared to notice； and once again； the doors swept
shut。
Fifteen； sixteen； and finally—finally！—seventeen； where the doors
opened to reveal a group ofRunway fashion assistants on their way to
pick up the cigarettes； Diet Coke； and mixed greens that would
constitute their lunch。 Each young； beautiful face looked more
panicked than the next； and they almost trampled one another trying
to move out of Miranda’s way。 They parted directly down the middle；
three to one side and two to the other； and she deigned to walk past
them。 They were all staring after her； silent； as she made her way
across the reception area； and I was left with no choice but to
follow her。 Wouldn’t notice a thing； I figured。 We’d just spent what
felt like an entire insufferable week locked together in a
five…by…three…foot box； and she hadn’t so much as acknowledged my
presence。 But as soon as I stepped onto the floor； she turned
around。
“Ahn…dre…ah？” she asked； her voice cutting through the tense silence
that filled the entire room。 I didn’t respond since I figured it was
rhetorical； but she waited。
“Ahn…dre…ah？”
“Yes； Miranda？”
“Whose shoes are you wearing？” She placed one hand lightly on a
tweed…swathed hip and peered over at me。 By now the elevator had
left without the fashion assistants； since they were too engrossed
in actually getting to see—and hear！—Miranda Priestly in the flesh。
I could feel six pairs of eyes on my feet； which； although they had
been quite fortable mere moments before； were now beginning to
burn and itch under the intense scrutiny of five fashion assistants
and one fashion guru。
The anxiety from the unexpected shared elevator ride （a first） and
the unwavering stares of all these people addled my brain； so when
Miranda asked whose shoes I was wearing； I thought that perhapsshe
thought I was not wearing my own。
“Um； mine？” I said； without realizing until the words had been
spoken that it sounded not only disrespectful； but downright
obnoxious。 The gaggle of Clackers began to twitter； until Miranda
turned her wrath on them。
“I’m wondering why the vahst majority of my fashion assistants
appear as though they have nothing better to do than gossip like
little girls。” She began singling them out by pointing at each one；
since she wouldn’t have been able to produce a single one’s name if
you put a gun to her head。
“You！” she said crisply to the coltish new girl who was probably
seeing Miranda for the first time。 “Did we hire you for this or did
we hire you to call in clothes for the suits shoot？” The girl hung
her head and opened her mouth to apologize； but Miranda barreled on。
“And you！” she said； walking over and standing directly in front of
Jocelyn； the highest…ranking among them and a favorite of all the
editors。 “You think there aren’t a million girls who want your job
and who understand couture just as well as you？” She took a step
back； slowly moved her eyes up and down each of their bodies；
lingering just long enough to make each feel fat； ugly； and
inappropriately clad；
